Star Trek: A Christmas Carol
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: An adaption of Charles Dicken's 'A Christmas Carol', with Selik's universe characters as spirits and Spock as the 23rd-century, First Officer Scrooge. Rated 'T' for mild cursing. One-shot that should have been probably broken into two.


Star Trek: A Christmas Carol

_"Christmas? Bah! Humbug! What is Christmas but a time to pay bills without any money? To find yourself a year older but not a hour richer? Christmas? If I had my way, any idiot with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips would be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!" - Ebenezer Scrooge. _A Christmas Carol

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><p>Amen to that, Brother Scrooge. - sherlokianwisdome (KS-archive)Autobot Chromia (FF dot net)

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><p>Music had always been a rather odd interest for a Vulcan. There were Vulcan musicians, orchestras, maybe five or six singers scattered about the entire past-planet, and anyone who had ever had the misfortune of hearing Vulcan Gorgonian Monk Chanting never soon forgot it. Ever. Most Vulcan youth were trained in certain instruments, from the lyre to the flute, and there were lullabies consisting of over three-hundred stanzas of great tales of long ago. Vulcans were no strangers to music. But, music involved a certain level of <em>emotion<em> that most lacked, for cultural reasons, of course.

Spock was an odd Vulcan. He had been raised in the typical Vulcan doctrine, schooled in the arts of logic and emotional control. He had been taught the Vulcan lyre and continued to play well into his adulthood. That wasn't the strange thing about him, not by a long shot. It was his human half adding emotion to his fingertips as he played the lyre, giving his music something more than typical Vulcan rhythm and accuracy. No matter how hard he tried, as child or adult, to suppress his human side, it always came out while he pulled the harp-like strings. He had all the rhythm and accuracy of a true Vulcan, and the heart and soul they could never apply to their musical arts.

It had always been a silent desire of his heart to, perhaps someday, play with an orchestra. But, while humans did admire his talent, even in early youth, a Vulcan playing in the strings section of the Boston Pops VI or other instrumental orchestras? He would stick out like a sore thumb amidst a sea of uniformity, pointy ears and green-tinged skin contrasting more rounded ears and white to black skin that blended so well together. And Vulcans simply could not embrace such illogical emotion coming from the vibrating strings, even if the sound was audibly pleasing. Others were simply not interested in another player, Vulcan, human, half of both, or musically genius or not. It was a dream that could not be followed, and not for any lack of trying on the dreamer's behalf.

His one desire crushed, Spock had resolved to take up a new one. If he was so shunned for what he was, too Vulcan to ever be human but too human to ever by truly Vulcan, he would ostracize them himself. Why wait to be banished when it saved so much pain to simply do it himself? He had always loved the starry night sky and the science of the universe, and had a natural knack for it as much as he did music. Space was quiet, and far away from people. Of course, he would have to work with others in a professional setting, especially if he was to serve on a starship, but there were no regulations concerning social settings.

And so Spock, declining admittance to the Vulcan Science Academy (a speciest remark from a board member spurring him on all the more) he went to earth and the Starfleet Academy of San Francisco. It had been a very lonesome time, especially as all contact - financial and otherwise - was cut, bond and all, by Sarek. Not so much as a single word was allowed to pass between Spock and his mother, and the quiet nights and silent days goaded him further into his studies. They were not difficult, when he found the time to study. His eidetic memory was quite helpful when he could keep his eyes open long enough to glance over the next day's pages. His scholarship, both in academics and musical arts, did not entirely fund his way through the Academy, and plenty of odd jobs took time away from studies and rest. Plus, he had to find a way to feed himself all that time or else there would have been no point to studying.

During those years at the Academy, both learning and teaching later on, Spock had picked up a nasty habit. It wasn't drugs, marijuana and several other abusants legal but banned on campus. It wasn't alcohol, nothing short but strong and highly _illegal_ Romulan ale the only liquid intoxicant to make his half-Vulcan system drunk. It wasn't chocolate, the other Vulcan intoxicant. It wasn't sex, Spock as untouched in every way as the day he had been betrothed. It wasn't anything strictly immoral or illegal or unethical. It was actually something several of cadets and officers and civilians alike could learn to do a little more of.

Spock's nasty habit, bred by necessity, was saving his hard earned credits. Every last half-cred that made its way into his account was as good as locked up in the ancient Fort Knox. Money had been very tight his few years as a student, and only slightly less tight his few months as a professor. A teacher's pay was still not the best, even in the twenty-third century. At first, saving had been crucial to pay for his student loans, the books he needed, the extra courses, food, medical bills that sprang up in simulations gone wrong or the latest disease sweeping through the not-free-of-charge dorm halls.

After the destruction of Vulcan-that-was, saving became different. Everything he had ever owned that he hadn't taken with him to Earth - the scant belongings consisting of one everyday robe, one special occasions robe , an IDIC pendant, a quilt his mother had made him, a few other necessities, and the beloved lyre - was destroyed in the implosion. His home, his belongings, his relatives, the mother he was not allowed to speak with for the past six years, all gone. He was twenty-two years old and his last memory of his mother, the one not screaming and reaching for his hand as she fell into the destruction below that haunted his dreams at night, was of her teary face as she sent a final sweep of support through her parental bond before Sarek clamped it shut, a hand to the window as Spock crossed into the empty road.

Saving money after Vulcan's ultimate demise had become a child's security blanket. No matter what happened, his money was safe. It was backed up with all sort of currency and precious gems and metals, so even if one bank crashed he would still have his credits. It was satisfactory to cash in a month's work onboard a starship, not having to spend anything he didn't want to, and watch the account numbers grow._ Secret millionaire _was a title he deserved well. And, it would always be there, no matter what type of disaster happened, he was financially secured.

It was all his, and no one could ever tell him what to do with it. _Ever_.

* * *

><p>Music rolled from the ship's intercom systems, merry tunes of snow and gifts and family and whatnot. Ancient songs of the twenty-first century and past even that far away date mingled with modern songs and songs completely alien, literally, that celebrated similar holidays at the same time of year. Wreathes of faux-branches in shades of bright green decorated the halls, trimmed with red ribbons and plastic holly berries. Mistletoe had been hung in both high-traffic areas and secluded areas meant to lure certain people under that particular plant.<p>

Obviously, others were allowed to celebrate their own traditions and religions as well. Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, as well as several other holidays invented on other planets merged into the giant melting pot that was the _Enterprise_. As long as religion and celebration did not interfere with work or cause severe offence to others, it was acceptable.

Of course, Jim noticed as he coaxed a few Christmas-style cookies out of the replicator along with a tall glass of cold milk, not everybody celebrated the holidays. Or participated in any kind of celebration, period.

Jim grinned to himself, as he clattered a the plate of cookies on the table, as a blue clad shirt startled slightly from his haunched position over his PADD. "Sorry, Spock," he said with no real remorse in his tone, setting down the milk and then himself, "didn't mean to scare ya."

The Vulcan sniffed lightly, a mostly empty bowl of soup at his elbow as he returned to his work. "You did no such thing, Captain."

Jim chuckled quietly, picking up one of the icebox cookies and sampling an antler off of a white-frosted, sprinkle covered reindeer. Not bad, but definitely not the way Grandma Kirk used to make them. He pushed the plate closer to Spock, forcing the science officer to glance up. "Want one? I think I replicated too many." he offered with his most winning smile.

"I do not care for sweets." Spock stated, eyeing the plate the way one would an open vial of the plague.

Snagging another cookie, Jim shrugged. "Your loss then." He crunched the end of a frosted sleigh, watching Spock a moment longer. "Com'mon, just one?" he goaded. "To get into the Christmas spirit? It's in a few days, you know."

Three days, four hours, twenty-six minutes, and an odd number of seconds, to be exact. "I have noticed." Spock commented dryly, unable to keep a slight grimace from his lips as Jim dusted crumbs off of his uniform and onto the table and, incidentally, his PADD. He brushed them off. "I do not celebrate Christmas."

"Never?" Jim teased, a third cookie disappearing from the plate. It might have been a sprig of holly or mistletoe. Whatever it had been, it certainly was devoured. "Wasn't your mother human? She must have celebrated Christmas sometimes. Maybe trimming a desert cactus?"

"Vulcan did not have cacti." Spock corrected once more, irritation rising up in him as he tried of focus on his report. "And my mother never celebrated Christmas in our home. Not every human falls under the Christian religion, or celebrates a watered down version of the holiday. Several officers onboard will not be participating in the Christmas holiday." Spock pointed out. "Also," he prepared for the final blow, "my mother was Jewish."

Silence came from Jim's mouth, a pleasant sound to not hear. He gaped a moment, blinked a few times, and wiped the crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "Bull."

Spock shook his head. "It most certainly is not. My mother was of Hebrew descent, and, being born of a Jewish woman, I myself fall under that category."

Jim leaned over the table, trying to get a peep at Spock's PADD, grinning. "Did she practice her religion?"

"Pardon?" Spock asked innocently, shifting the screen away and using his arm as a barricade.

"Was she a practicing Jew?" Jim clarified. "I've never seen you wear a _yamaka_, or put up a _menorah_, or observe Passover, or do anything remotely similar to something Jewish." Jim's Kirkian smile had not faded. "If neither if you practiced, it doesn't count."

"_Atheists_ do not celebrate any holidays." Spock added hotly, shutting the screen of his work off harshly.

Jim hummed, reclaiming his seat, and the last cookie. "I see." he drawled slowly, taking his time in biting the arm off of a gingerbread man. "So, just to get it straight, you didn't practice?"

"Do _you_?" Spock tried, hiding the irritation flashing in his eyes by staring deeply at his screen.

Jim scoffed, idly swiping a finger across the plate, cleaning up the fallen jimmies and licking them off his finger. "'Course not." he rolled his eyes. "I'm not Jewish. I've always celebrated Christmas, even if it wasn't a good year." And, to tell the truth, there were more bad than good years.

_What is Christmas but a time to find yourself a year older but not an hour richer?_ A line from an old book flashed through Spock's mind, grumbling internally.

And externally, too, it seemed, as Jim's face lit up. "Oh, good, so at least you'll get the reference when I call you a miserly, old Scrooge."

The chair once seating a Vulcan was pushed back with all the grace and silence of an _ack-lay _trying to stow away in a shuttlcraft. "I do not need to sit here and be insulted." Spock groused, snitching up his work and storming off with all the subtlety of a tsunami.

Jim sighed to himself, propping a fist onto his cheek and eyeing the empty plate, a single non-parrel resting in the middle of it. Maybe he could have laid off the teasing a little bit, especially if he wanted to get the _Enterprise's_ resident Vulcan into the Christmas spirit. Or, as spirited as a Vulcan could get, at the very least. Jim gathered up his empty plate and drained the last sip from his glass of milk, scooping up Spock's abandoned, half-eaten lunch. Maybe he could invite Spock for dinner to to make it up to him. Or, even better, forgo the invitation and just walk right into Spock's room! That should smooth things over quite nicely.

Captain Kirk was so engrossed in his own thoughts, mingling with the hallways festive-time music and cheery decorations, he walked smack into a brick wall. A very grumpy brick wall, one with a six-o'clock shadow evenly coating his grizzled chin and having hairy arms.

"Good God, Jim." Bones groused, shoving what he had thought was a grown adult off of him as he picked himself up. "Will you watch where the hell you're going?"

Flashing his most innocent smile, Jim propped himself up on his elbows. "Sorry, Bones, my mind was elsewhere... Speaking of which, if you were a Christmas-hating Vulcan, what would you want as a present?"

"Will you stop acting like a damned sugar-hyped five year old and get up already?" McCoy barked, not his typical growl, either. Normally, the good doctor was all noise and no circumstance, noise and rage that signified nothing. Something in his voice struck Jim as off, a sting that felt like it should hurt but not sure why. He picked himself up, as ordered.

"What's wrong?"

McCoy flinched, definitely not a good sign. He fiddled with the flap of his ever-present doctor's bag, tugging at the latch until it gave. A small PADD, like the one Spock had been doing reports on, was slid out and onlined and silently handed over. "It's Selik, Jim. Old Spock."

"I know who it is." Jim rolled his eyes, quickly setting about skimming the article. It was all written in medical jargon, scratchy penmanship in places and electronic type in others. Suddenly, Jim paused, blinking once or twice. "What?" he asked, quickly rereading. "No, what-"

"The report was filled this morning." McCoy explained lowly. "I just got it now. It seems Selik had some kind of undiagnosed heart condition, hereditary from the looks of it, and had been having heart attacks without knowing it."

Jim scoffed, eyes stinging and the room blurring behind a shield of tears he would keep back. "How the fuck do you have a _heart attack _and not know about it?"

"It's not all that uncommon." McCoy pointed out before waving a hand, getting back to the point. "He suffered a massive heart attack early this morning on New Vulcan. It's a good thing that he was staying with Sarek, or else-"

"Or else it might have been a few weeks before his _body _was found." Jim snapped, slamming the PADD off.

"He died in the hospital, Jim." McCoy argued weakly, even if what Jim had said held some merit. Ambassador Selik had not come down at his usual time, and, for some reason or another, Sarek was at home during that time and found things unusually quiet. McCoy sighed, placing a hand on the back of his neck. "I knew how much he meant to ya, Jim. I'm sorry."

Jim blew a slow breath, the PADD weighing heavily in his hand. "Does anyone else know?"

"Not yet." Bones shook his head. "I was going to tell Spock; I don't think anyone else really needs to know unless one of you tells them."

Jim nodded absently, mind drifting towards the Vulcan he had just royally pissed off with his nagging. Wouldn't this be a fine present, a most excellent way to get Spock into the season's spirit? "Merry fucking Christmas." he muttered to himself.

McCoy snorted, bobbing his head in agreement. He paused, hand slipping back into his black bag. He pulled out two, small, hexagonal shaped blocks. "When I got the message," he said, handing both cubes to Jim, "there were these downloads with them. I uploaded them to the holo-emitters. One's for you and the other's for Spock. Not sure which is which, though."

Jim nodded, turning them about. A title in Vulcan script had been loaded into the display corner, the names of both recipiants. One for each cube. McCoy couldn't read or speak Vulcan, aside from a few profanities, so it wasn't surprising that he wouldn't get the cuneiform scrawlings. "Thanks." Jim said lowly, eyeing his cube.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder, strong but gentle. "Do you want me to go tell Spock, or go with you-"

Quickly shaking his head, Jim slid out from under the comforting grasp. "No, I got it. Thanks... thanks for telling me, I guess."

McCoy snorted, warily withdrawing. Jim remained standing alone, looking at both cubes in his hand. He could go over to Spock now and give him his, explain what had happened, and then go to his quarters and bawl his eyes out as he watched his own. Sliding Spock's cube into his pocket, he decided to cry first and explain later. Maybe hearing Selik's voice, even recorded, would help him find the words to say.

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><p>There were no words to say. Jim had said them all, eyes bloodshot and cheeks lightly tear stained, although a splash of cold water had taken away the worst of the redness. Selik, Spock Prime, the only person who had ever really understood him the way nobody else ever could, was gone. Dead, passed into the final frontier for, with what Selik had once said, the second time. This time, though, to stay.<p>

A black and clear plastic hexagonal cube rested before him on the desk. The room, while lit, seemed oddly dimmed, the cube's clear parts illuminated by the light lighting. His name was scrawled out on the side in digital Vulcan script. A single pressure sensor lay invisible on the one corner, waiting to be pressed. He hadn't realized how emotionally compromised he really was until he stretched out a hand from his spot, seated in the lone desk chair, and watched in abstract fascination as his hand trembled violently.

A long, white, finger vibrating with pent up emotions paused, just grazing the touch-sensor enough to not initiate the device. He withdrew, reaching forward once more, finger extended. He put a finger to the sensor, realizing it was the wrong side and the touch-button was on the other side, and wrapped his hand about the entire thing and tossed it into a desk drawer. The recording cube would still be there tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Spock didn't need to watch it now. He could wait.

Instead of watching and listening to the recorded message, Spock rested a hand on his head, and stared at nothing, mind entirely blank except for the gnawing longing deep in his side, where his heart beat a steady rhythm.

* * *

><p>Christmas Eve night. A skeleton crew, composed of mainly the few people with no religious beliefs or did not celebrate any kind of holiday, worked idly at their stations. The majority of the crew, a good ninety-five point six percent of them, was off celebrating all sorts of holidays.<p>

Spock sat alone in the empty mess hall, the same PADD he had from two days ago onlined. A different report, an invenory list needing checking, lay onlined besides him. Less than half of it was done, somewhat abandoned. A half-eaten bowl of cooled and now coagulated _plomeek_ soup had been pushed to the side, a few spoonfuls removed. Spock was not hungry, but yet he could not find it in himself to apply his entire being into his work as he normally did. The mess hall was blessedly silent, a large Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/Whatever-you-celebrate party going on in the main congregation hall. If he strained his ears enough, Spock could pick up faint blasts of music.

It had been two days ago when Selik had died, his body taken aboard some starship and shot into deep space. It had not been the _Enterprise_, as much as Jim, and Spock to a quieter extent, had hoped for. Selik had not specified his preference of starship, an oversight on his end, or so Jim had cursed. The nearest ship, a nobody ship called _Voyager_, had taken on the body and launched it with all the pomp and circumstance of visiting the funeral of a complete stranger.

Jim had argued with Headquarters for hours, backed up by Spock and McCoy until the Admiral had called an end to the holo-communcations. Jim was right, it should have been the _Enterprise_. Starfleet Headquarters did not look at sentimental values, though, nor did they make exceptions to the rules (at least, not often). The _Enterprise_ was just too far from New Vulcan to make the trip, the _Voyager _much closer and already en-route with supplies for the colony. It had been entirely logical.

Logic sucked. It meant the world, it meant the difference between insolence and knowledge, it meant the difference between foolishness and common sense, but it _sucked_. Spock was now beginning to see why his counterpart so often stretched and bent the Vulcan rules of dogma and logic so often.

Or..., at least, he had, when he was alive.

Spock was so engrossed in his thoughts, so close to turning off the PADD and leaving, that he almost started when a chair across from him was pulled out and a body plopped into it. He should have felt his presence, or at least noticed the hydraulic whooshing of the door as it had opened. He eyed Jim warily a moment, a hand hovering over the switch of the PADD.

"Hey." Jim greeted quietly, a soft smile tugging apart his pink lips. "What'cha doing?"

Spock merely lifted an eyebrow, enough said. _As if you cannot tell?_ his incredulous look seemed to ask, PADD and soup evident.

The human shifted in his seat. "I, uh," Jim cleared his throat, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I am adequate." Spock's reply was reflexive. It wasn't a lie. Totally, at least.

Jim bobbed his head absently, looking at the half eaten bowl. Spock had not been eating all that much the past two days. But, in all honesty, neither had Jim. Aside from a few dozen Christmas cookies somebody had brought to the congregation hall, homemade with real ingredients that would have been a deadly sin to ignore. "I see." Jim said, not entirely convinced. "I wanted to see if you wanted to come to the Christmas party. There's still time. Even just to grab a plate of something and leave." Jim added, eyes glowing a melancholy shine. "A bunch of people made real food for the party."

Jim's heart sank the way his face fell as Spock slowly rose, picking up the PADD and empty bowl and gave a single shake of his head. "Contrarily, Captain, I was going to return to my quarters for the night."

"You sure?" Jim asked, scrambling to rise and push in his chair. Spock seemed to balance everything just so, even pressing his chair back into place with the heel of his boot with more grace than Jim contained in his entire being. Spock nodded. Jim sighed, "You know, we could head down to one of the Rec. rooms. They're all empty, and we could play a game of chess or something."

"It is courteous of you to offer." Spock put the bowl back into the replicator, closing the hatch and pressing the button for deconstruction. "But I am not in the mood for chess tonight."

"A movie?" Jim suggested quickly, not about to let Spock walk away again. "It doesn't have to be a Christmas one."

Spock paused, looking contemplative a moment. However, he shook his head in final thought. "Perhaps some other night, Jim."

Walking quickly, PADD clasped in his white hands, he moved towards the automatic doors, letting them close behind him, and shutting out the human as he left. He quickly strode through the long halls, took a short ride on the lift, a brief trek through yet another hall, and paused before his door. It only took a second to type in the command code, fingers moving on their own. The room was dark upon entering, an eerie red glow flickering across a single corner beneath the great pot-belly of a meditation statue. Spock did not need to call the lights on as the door closed behind him, all too aware of where every object of the room was. His PADD landed on the desk with a quiet thunk, his clothes rustling quietly as he stripped off his top layer of regulation blue shirt and black pants for an equally black undershirt and long-john pants. His boots were toed off in an untypical Vulcan fashion, but left with the neatness of one having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

The blanket and sheet of his well-made bed were pulled down, the heat ordered up a few notches, and he settled in. Meditation could wait for another day; Spock was tired now. And, if he were to be entirely honest, he was not feeling the greatest. Emotionalism would do that to anyone. A dull ache had formed behind his eyes and temples, another ache nestling at the back of his skull and stretching forward. At least he was tired, so sleep should come easily.

Somewhere, in the half-conscious stage of awareness and sleep, his mind flitted over to the holo-recorder in the second drawer of his desk. _Another day_. his eyes closed shut. _It'll still be there in another day._

* * *

><p>An alarm rang, a single Klaxons blaring out into the darkness. His eyes snapped open, body snapping up in attention. Reflexively, his vision darted about the room for search of flashing red or yellow lights. None came, except the steady glow of the incense pot beneath the black obsidian statue. While the continued blare hammering in his ears was a Klaxons, it did not whoop and holler like a typical call to stations.<p>

Groaning silently to himself, Spock realized it was only his wake up alarm. Odd, as he had not been dependant upon an alarm since his first day of school, instantly setting his body's natural wake-up clock to that bell and awaking before it ever since. He silenced it with a single order, trying to figure out just what time it was. His body clock was saying he had only slept two hours. The chronometer-clock of his quarters was saying he had overslept much longer than 120 minutes.

"Computer." Spock said, somewhat groggily, as lights turned to a dim setting.

A clacking noise sounded, a disembodied female voice droning, "Working."

"Computer, what is the current time?" Spock asked carefully, wondering just why visible clocks had become obsolete in this day and age.

"Working..." the computer hummed in a chiming voice, clicking an clacking as it sorted out Spock's words. "Current time: twelve-hundred fourteen hours and twenty-six seconds."

That was exactly the time Spock had in his head. He paused, brows furrowing. "Computer, explain the malfunction of the clock."

"Working... No malfunction found in chronometer software."

Reaching a hand up to cradle his cheek, Spock frowned. "Computer, look for malfunctions in alarm system, Code: First Officer's Quarters, level 4."

The clickety-clack sounded once more, continuing on as the computer dug deeper and deeper into the systems. "No malfunctions found in alarm system First Officer's Quarters level 4."

Spock sighed, laying wearily against the cool pillows. There obviously _was_ some kind of malfunction, or else his never-used alarm clock would not have gone off at the wrong hour. He contemplated comming Engineering or Mr. Scott, but there were already so few crewmembers tending the engines it would have been illogical and petty to pull one away to check out a broken alarm clock. And, Scotty was quiet an extrovert for one who valued his alone time so highly. He was probably passed out drunk or quiet near it right about now, the Christmas part in full swing.

He could always wait until morning and go back to sleep, assuming that the alarm wouldn't go off again. The only problem with his plan was that now that he had been awakened, and so harshly, all sleep had fled his body. The dull ache in his head before sleeping had diminished some, but all fatigue he had originally lain down with was entirely gone. He sighed heavily to himself, alone and with nobody to witness the unVulcan sound. He padded in socked feet across the thin carpet barely cushioning against the metal flooring beneath towards his desk, hesitating only a moment before withdrawing the cube. Now was as good as time as any to view it.

His fingers were steadier as he reached for the proper button, pausing only to collect himself before gently pressing it. Four prongs from its top sprang open, a quiet hum unheard by most humans picked up by his pointy ears as the machine started up. A greenish-blue projection was shot up five inches from the device in a 'V' formation, showing nothing at first. Three quick flickers and a static weave later, a painfully familiar face peering out with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Spock." the small projection spoke, his smiling yet somehow still crestfallen eyes seeming to stare at the wall. Spock refrained from turning it more towards himself. "If you are viewing this message, it is safe to assume that I am either dead or assumed dead. My age being what it is, and I am most likely already assumed dead in my own universe, the first is much more likely.

"Spock, this message is both an apology on my end, and a warning for your own." Selik's voice was strong, as strong as a recording's could be, but lacked the real emotion he would have spoken with in the real situation, had he been sitting across from Spock with a teacup in one hand. "I start first with the apology. It was by accident that, some months ago, I gained access to your accounts. We are unsurprisingly quiet similar, down to our choice of passwords. I had forgotten that I had changed my own credit accounts to a different name, and had naturally used our given first name. I was... shocked to see how much had accumulated in my account. After I had realized it was yours, my surprise increased tenfold."

The young Vulcan glowered, unaware of the pucker forming about his lips and the crease of his forehead leading down to his brows. Was Selik's final words to him really going to be a chastise on personal bank savings? Where were the final words meant to bring peace and help him in his life ahead? If Spock wanted to learn more about savings venues, he'd hire a broker.

"You are not a greedy person, Spock, but I must admit a certain worry to your dragon's hoard you seem to have tucked away." Selik continued. "We both share a common path up to the point of the destruction of Vulcan. I am well aware of the trials you - _we_ - faced after our father cut us off from everything, even written word and comfort. It was not easy, but I never reverted to a stocking up a mass amount of credits."

Spock's ears turned out to the late Vulcan's words, self-righteous anger flooding his mind. How dare he scold him merely because he was financially secure. _Very_ financially secure. There were similarities between himself and Selik, or there had been, but there were also very vast differences. Perhaps Selik just didn't have the business-like mind and structure needed to maintain such a lofty sum that Spock owned in abundance.

Selik was still talking, about sharing both currency and feelings for support in case of self-consciousness or worry. He reached for the button, his anger justified in his mind. He did not have to sit there and simply take the berating when a simple off or, even simpler, a voice command switch would shut the whole thing down.

"And now, your warning." Selik fulfilled his second promise, stymieing Spock's hand as his finger launched towards the power button. "Expect three visitors tonight, Spock. The clock is half-past twelve now, the first will come in approximately half an hour."

An illogical sense of horror burned through Spock, starting from where his fingers brushed against the button and up his arm to his head and spread out throughout his nerves from there. It was a chilling accuracy, a paranormal exactness that made his already green blood run cold.

"Call them what you will." Selik's eyes seemed to twinkle with mischief now. "Past friends, mirror-counterparts, ghosts, spirits." The elderly, now dead Vulcan paused. His head turned, looking from the blank part at the wall and right into Spock's eyes, like an action figure that had come to life and only just become self aware.

An even colder feeling wrapped about Spock's wrists, like heavy shackles of frozen iron. An invisible chain seemed to wrap about his neck, pulling tighter and tighter until oxygen became scarce in his lungs and blood.

"Expect the first one-"

"Delete entry!" Spock gasped, the miniature figure staring him down freezing before disappearing into scrubbed bytes of technology. A moment of regret at what he had done was washed over with relief. McCoy had downloaded the file from his computer, there must have been some glitch in the cube to make it act so. The same glitch that had messed with his alarm system was mucking about with all the technology in the room. It was the only logical explanation.

Still, he only began to feel truly safe again once he had wrapped the bed blankets about himself and buried as deeply into them as he could, like a little child hiding from the screeching winds outside his window. He ordered the lights down, keeping them at a measly five percent. He was not frightened, only cautious.

It seemed an impossible hope that sleep would ever come to him, and especially in such a short time frame. Spock fully expected to remain awake long into the morning, unvisited by ghostly demons and belittling himself for his paranoia. Instead, had he himself been a spirit passer-by, he would have observed himself in a sound but troubled sleep, hands almost white as they clutched the blankets about himself.

* * *

><p><em>Ding. Ding. Ding... . Ding.<em>

A soft chiming filled the room like a delicious scent, slowly growing in volume.

_Ding! Ding! Ding!_

A great many bells tinkled their claps against the metal sides, swinging gaily, invisible in the air yet all about like fireflys on a warm July night. More bells joined in, donging and tolling. Sleep was obviously far from Spock's mind as he shot up in bed, hands clutched around the comforter's edge, his very self on edge as a warm, yellow glow began to form besides his bed. It looked similar to a transporter doing its function, but also like a very yellow carbonated soda. A short red skirt contrasting soft, chocolate ebony skin materialized beside him. Spock, shamefully, found himself very much afraid.

A woman, her short red dress embellished with a Starfleet symbol on her left breast, smiled softly at him. A thin material, whispy and light like the puffy material used beneath a wedding dress to make it puffier, draped down one side of her leg like a purposefully torn train, forming loosely around her right leg. Her left arm was wrapped in ribbons of the see-through, netted material, but her main dress was most definitely a solid Starfleet uniform. Her hairstyle, though, a very tall beehive or impossibly large bun germinating from the top of her head, could not have been regulation.

"Are-" Spock's voice rasped as he quickly tried to clear it. "Are you the first visitor."

The woman, perhaps in her late-thirties or early-middle forties, smiled a sweet, friendly, motherly smile as she nodded. She seemed strangely bright, and Spock realized the only light in the room radiated from her, his own lights having been shut off. "I sure am, sugar." even her voice had a soft, musical quality to it. "Do I look familiar ?"

Spock blinked, looking up and down the woman. She did have an odd feel to her, despite the fact a spirit was in his room and he was telepathically trying to place her. "You do."

"My name's Uhura." the woman, or spirit, replied with a serene smile. While a certain amount of surprise filtered through Spock, he found that it was impossible to be afraid around her. "Nyota Uhura. I was a friend of your counterpart's."

"You are the Uhura of Selik's universe?" Spock asked, as wide eyed and wondrous as a five-year old seeing the tradition tree at New York's Rockefeller Center in person for the first time.

Uhura hummed in the positive. "I'm also your first visitor, just like you said. I guess," she laughed softly, as softly as the first bells that had announced her arrival, "I guess you could call me the Ghost of Christmases Past."

A fuzzy black eyebrow, like a caterpillar suspended at a seventy-five degree angle, stretched up to eighty degrees. "Pardon?"

"I'm here to show you your past." the older Uhura explained, a hand wrapping about Spock's wrists and avoiding his hands. Warmth radiated from her body, soothing his very soul.

"For what reasons?" Spock argued, for some reason allowing himself to be pulled from the bed and to his feet, still socked and in his underclothes. "I am Vulcan enough to have inherited my father's species' eidetic memory. I remember everything after my suckling period."

A crepe-wrapped arm shrugged lightly. "So? Just because you can remember everything doesn't mean you think about it all the time. Come on, hon', this is for your own good."

A soft warbling sound, like water and technology mixed together, sounded behind Spock, and he reflexively turned. A window had opened up, a portal revealing nothing but the black, empty spances of endless space. Not the twinkling vision of warp speed, but the terrifying stillness and nothingness of a dead-stop. Uhura stepped towards it, her soft hands still wrapped about Spock's wrists. He dug his heels like a stubborn mule, or obstinate child who did not want to go to the dentist's despite his mother's tugging.

"Spirit," Spock stated lowly, voice breathy as he tried to free his wrist to no avail. It was not that the woman was strong, but he seemed oddly weak in her grasp. "Ms. Uhura, I- you cannot expect me to go out through _that_."

"Afraid you'll be instantaneously frozen and compressed by the intense cold and vacuum of space?" she asked innocently, head tilting and hair remaining rock solid. She flashed a pleasant smile at his widened eyes. "Don't worry, honey, I need only touch you here-" she reached with her free hand towards his side, laying a hand over his pounding heart. He felt it calming beneath her touch. "And," she stretched on her tiptoes to give the tall Vulcan a peck on the cheek, "a kiss. Just because."

The warmth that had spread through his side was now blossoming in his cheek. Nothing like a hot, angry, painful burn, but a soothing heat that spread like slightly cooled wildfire. A soft blush wrapped about his face, starting at the place where Uhura's lips had touched his cheek. She walked forward, Spock following despite the thousand and one warnings and insecurities that slammed into him. The older woman smiled, pausing just long enough to give Spock's wrist a quick squeeze and releasing him, stepping into the gelatin -like wormhole and disappearing.

Without hesitation, but perhaps a quick breath before he entered the gaping jaws of space, he followed.

Spock squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath and feeling for all the world like a rubber balloon entering a hall of spackled, popcorned ceilings and needle lined floors and walls. Well aware of a soft hand touching his shoulder, he dared himself to peek - and froze.

This was not the endless vacuum of cold, empty space. There was no darkness, even if it was a moonless night outside. His feet were on solid ground, a warm cement floor cooling on a Vulcan night.

"This-this is," a lump had formed behind Spock's Adam's apple, words failing him.

"Your first Christmas." Uhura nodded in agreement.

In opposition, Spock shook his head. "This is the city of Shir'Kar, on the planet Vulcan-that-was. We are in my childhood home."

"That too." Uhura shrugged lightly, tugging Spock along. The warm scent of spiced apple cider, a human woman's own recipe to replace the usual hot chocolate, wafted throughout the rooms. Cookies and nutritional bars made of figs, dates, and dried Vulcan fruits filled a tiny plate in the centre of a sitting room, dusted lightly with confectioners sugar. Uhura paused in speculation, turning a critical eye in Spock's direction. "Those look an awful lot like _Christmas_ cookies." she thrust an accusing finger towards the plate. "I think I remember you saying something about never celebrating Christmas, as your mother was Jewish."

The soft blush that had once complimented Spock's pale skin darkened like an irritated bruise, his chocolate brown eyes were unable to meet the equally brown eyes boring into his _katra_. "My mother was Jewish." he stated quietly. "As in her ancestors were of Hebrew descent, and, perhaps, at one time... practicing."

"You mean you nor your mother were active in the Jewish faith?" Uhura exclaimed mockingly, here crepe-covered arm folding over her bare one as she tapped her foot.

"No." Spock admitted lower than before, head hung. "My mother's family had not practiced their religion in... generations, instead connecting more with the commercial Christmas or nothing at all."

"So these are Christmas cookies." Uhura grinned, delicately lifting two of the confectionaries and bringing one to her soft, glossed lips. A few crumbs clung to the corner of her mouth as she bit into it, a thin frosting covering the warm, lightly browned cookies in all sorts of unusual and very unChristmassy shapes. In fact, they looked more like abstract art than any kind of recognizable shape or picture. "These are good." she announced, holding out the other to Spock. "Your mother was an excellent cook."

Spock nodded in full agreement. "She was." He eyed the cookie cautiously. "Will not the stolen treats be missed?"

"Oh," Uhura placed the cookie in Spock's hand and quickly brushed the few crumbs from her face and hands, "I probably should have told you, we're invisible, mere shadows dancing on the walls. We can observe and talk and be as loud as we want, but those we're viewing won't be able to see or hear us. We're quite safe."

Humming quietly, Spock's mind worked and his eyebrows furrowed. "Do trips like these happen often, spirits watching mortals and skipping through timelines?"

"And taking random people with us." Uhura answered with a smile. "Kind of gives you the creeps, never knowing if someone else is watching you from the dark corners of a room, doesn't it?"

Spock did not reply, trying to remember how many unaccounted for shadows he had come across in his time. His thoughts were interrupted by the gentle pattering of slippered feet, moving across the hard heart hammering in his side stopped entirely, breath a wistful thing of the past as a woman with long, brown hair, thin yet elegant form fitted in a tight yet still modest female robe came out of what Spock knew was the hallway, a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and white string in her hands.

"Spock?" Amanda called out, a smile pulling up her soft, pink lips and sparkling in her eyes. "Spock, will you come here, please?"

Silence answered the human woman for a few seconds before a young voice finally replied, voice distant and muffled down a hall and behind a closed door. "Coming, Mother."

Standing in place of the shadows, still and trying to remember how to breathe in the past-presence of the woman he had lost only a year ago, Spock wondered if this was how his counterpart had felt upon seeing himself for the first time. The loud pattering of a child running, quickly stopping, and calmly walking into the room sounded as a five-year old version of himself crossed the threshold into the moderately sized sitting room. His hair, while in the same cut he still wore now, lacked the luster of products that kept it still and smooth for days on end. A light frizz curled a black cowlick up on the back of his head, looking like a drake's tail. A child's robe was wrapped around his body, baring skin around his arms and towards his chest and coming up short, just above his knees in a pants-like wrap, a small playsuit.

"Aw, sweetie." Amanda chuckled as she covertly laid her package aside and motioned Spock forward. The young half-Vulcan could not hide his grimace as she licked the tips of her fingertips and tried to pat down the unruly curl on the back of her sons head. "I interrupted your meditation again, didn't I? You look just like you did when you were a toddler and I woke you up from your nap."

A rather human sound came from her son's throat, the traditional groan of a child embarrassed by his female parent. "Mother." Spock grumbled as she pat down the cowlick. "You did interrupt me, but I was nearly completed."

The Lady Amanda hummed, dissatisfied with her work as the saliva smothered strands of hair curled back up despite her best work. "You have been meditating more than usual, Spock. Is there something wrong?"

"No, Mother." Spock shook his head swiftly, the curly ends curling up further as he shook out the last of her work. He stepped away before she could apply more spit. "Father says I should be farther along in my meditations. I should be well into my second stages, but I can't even reach the beginnings of the second without trouble."

"He also said you shouldn't try and force it." Amanda added carefully. Thinking that, perhaps, a sugar cookie might help smooth over her son's troubled non-existent feelings, Amanda reached for the plate and paused. "Spock? Has I-Chaya been in the house, recently?"

Young-young Spock shook his head. "No, he hasn't. I saw him sleeping out in the shed when I was came home from school. He's probably still there."

Amanda hummed curiously, picking up a frosted cookie blob and handing it to Spock, looking about the room. "I could have sworn I set out more cookies..."

Besides him, Uhura giggled. "Interesting fact," she addressed the adult form of the child before them, "we 'ghosts' are also usually the ones that move things around. The stylus you set in one spot and could have sworn was there just a second ago, or that coffee cup that never seems to be in same place."

"That does not seem like a very ethical use of your time." Spock commented dryly, his hand still wrapped about his uneaten treat.

"Probably not." Uhura shrugged. "But, the afterlife gets boring, hanging out with the same people you knew in life and waiting for your best friends to join you. And, it's fun to cause some mischief now and then. I've never heard of a spirit ever doing something totally diabolical, like murder or theft. We just... move things around, or hide them."

Spock hummed quietly, turning his attention back to his late mother and the even younger version of himself. Absently, he bit into the cookie beginning to crumble in his hands, a burst of orange and lemon extract hitting his tongue. He had not noticed how much he had missed something so simple as his mother's cookies until the familiar flavor pulled back all his memories of the simple treat.

"Spock." Amanda was saying, sitting down in an easy chair and motioning her son closer. "Do you know what today is?"

"Of course I do, Mother." a very thin eyebrow wriggled upwards. "It is-"

Amanda quickly brushed him off before a little Vulcan could tell him the stardate down to the very last microsecond. "I'm talking about holidays, Spock."

Two fuzzy eyebrows furrowed, and frizzy black head tilting to the side. "I don't know of any Vulcan holidays that are observed today."

"That's because this isn't a Vulcan holiday." Amanda's smile was as warm, if not warmer, than Uhura's touch. She reached to the adjacent table and removed her package. "Today is the Earth holiday of Christmas."

Understanding stretched across little Spock's face. "I've read about that holiday, Mother. But..." confusion lifted his voice, "you're not a Christian."

"You don't have to be a Christian to observe Christmas." Amanda laughingly stated, sliding her small parcel into her son's hands. "I know we've never really celebrated it before, but I wanted to get you something this year."

Another eyebrow would have slid up had Amanda's gentle yet firm goading not forced Spock to pull off the thin string and peel back the rough paper. Inside lay a novel-PADD of astronomy, a black back dusted with stars and a cloud nebula decorating the device. Spock looked up at his mother curiously, eyes smiling if he could not allow his mouth to.

"Mother..." he said softly, onlining it to pull up the first starmap. "Thank you."

Amanda nodded absently. "I thought perhaps we could use it together with your telescope."

Confusion crossed Spock's face for the third time. "Mother, I don't own a telescope."

"Really?" Amanda asked in surprise. "I could have sworn I saw one in the backyard."

It was only a matter of second before Spock, putting two and two together, hugged the PADD to his chest and raced down the hall towards the back door. Amanda smiled to herself before following. Spock, the adult version still unobserved by the past people, turned his head as a hand touched him.

"This was also the very last Christmas you ever got to spend with your mother." Uhura said softly, eyes distant as if looking over Spock's entire childhood in her head. "How come?"

"Father came home later that night, after I was in bed. Mother and I had stayed up late to study the stars with the new instrument. When she told him what had happened, he was rather displeased." Spock explained quietly. "I was not asleep yet and overheard them arguing."

Uhura snorted. "That's a pretty tame way to say he got pissed off. So pissed off that he never let you or your mother practice Christmas again."

Spock nodded quietly, a few crumbs clinging to his fingers as Uhura took his wrist again.

"Come on." she pulled him carefully. "We have a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time."

"Where are we heading-" Spock blinked as a sudden wave of dizziness threw him off balance, and he reached for a tall cupboard that seemed to have materialized beside him. "-next." He looked around. The room, while spacious, was cramped with three beds and three white dressers. Two desks lined another wall, and two doors on opposite ways were a bathroom and a door leading out. "This is my first dormitory." Spock stated. "My first year in the Academy."

"And your first Christmas away from home." Uhura added. "Sarek might have put the kibosh on Christmas, but that didn't stop you from helping Amanda make cookies at this time of year. Your father didn't seem to mind the treats too much."

Spock was rather inclined to agree, but was interrupted by doing so when the door slid open to reveal a tall, lanky young man just barely turned twenty by a human calendar. His hair had finally been schooled into the proper fashion, an embarrassing amount of hair gel seeing that the cowlick never curled up ever again. He held a tall stack of library PADDs in his arms as he deposited his stack on the desk, and immediately sat down to begin on the first. He did not change his clothes, he did not bathe, and he did not grab something for his scrawny self to eat, instead getting right to the schoolwork.

"That is myself." Spock observed quietly. The scene had not been from too long ago, roughly eight years if he wanted to estimate the lazy way, and not much had changed in appearance. Academy Spock was much thinner than _Enterprise_ Spock, although the latter could still gain a few pounds as it was.

The door slid open again, laughter and loud chatting boulding into the room much as the owner of the two voices did. One was a redhead boy of twenty-one, a surplus of freckles dotting his face to give him an even younger appearance. He smiled widely at his friend, a brown-haired male also of twenty-one. Both were chit-chatting like a couple of gossipping females as they plopped onto seprate beds, peeling off their dirty clothes.

"Did you see Bill's face during the sim?" the redhead choked on his laughter. "It didn't even feel like a crashing starship!"

"How would you know, Roy?" the black-haired boy rolled his eyes. "How many crashing ships have you been on."

Roy's face turned as red as his hair. "Shut up, Pete." he muttered, tossing his warm sock at his friend's face.

Pete dodged it easily, snatching it from the air and tossing it back, grinning triumphantly at the original thrower's indignant crow. He glanced towards the two desks, lifting a finger to his lips as Roy caught his eyes to glare, and slowly began to creep towards the occupied desk. Hands extended, he paused just long enough to hold his breath, and jumped forward with a shout.

"Stick 'em up!" Pete screamed at the top of his lungs, slowly deflating as the Vulan did little more than sigh in annoyance and online the next page. "Crap, I coulda sworn I would have got you that time."

"I highly doubt you will ever succeed in startling me." Spock muttered, eyes skimming the page and onlining the next.

Pete shrugged, undeterred. "So, ya coming to the Christmas party later tonight? It'll just be crawling with babes."

"No." Spock replied, quickly reading the next and the next page. He did not have much time to study. "I assume you and Roy will be attending?"

"Hell, yeah!" Roy announced from his bed, sliding on a pair of jeans and donning a navy blue sweater. "The Christmas party's always the best, especially since the seniors are in charge of getting it together. They always bring the best booze."

Spock remained silent. Simply because he was underage, and alcohol did not affect him in the same ways, did not mean his roommates could not partake in inebriating substance. He kept his firm silence as the two rowdy males donned the last of their clothing, all the while talking and laughing animatedly, and leaving to get there early and 'scope the place out'. Spock had learned that meant situating oneself to attract the most females, or males in case of the opposite sex doing the scoping, or looking for large congregations of the desired gender.

Sighing quietly, Spock quickly skimmed the last few lines of his PADD before offlining it and disappearing into the bathroom to dispose of his uniform and take a shower. When he emerged, not a full three minutes later, he was dressed in a store uniform. He quickly left the dorm room, door locking behind.

Uhura hummed quietly. "Was every year like this? Running from one job to the next, studying when you could, sleeping when you found the time, and ignoring your fellow sentients ?"

"Mainly." Spock stated cooly. "When I became a professor, I was able to drop the extra jobs."

The woman laughed without any humor in her tone, a cold sound compared to the pealing bells she usually mimicked, "Well, we're not going to get much more than this here." She grabbed his wrist, and the swirling vertigo blurred Spock's vision. When the rocking stopped, he found himself back in his quarters on the _Enterprise_.

An unusual amount of relief flooded Spock as he eyed his bed, thankful to be back after the rather odd ordeal. "I thank you for bringing me back." He started, unaware of the funny look on her face as he stepped away and back towards the bed. It felt very odd time-traveling in your nightclothes. Hadn't the bed been unmade before he left?

Before he could question the counter-spirit, a series of sharp knocks and the chirp of the doorbell sounded. Reflexively, Spock moved to answer the door, only to step aside as he did. A different version of himself did, at least. It was himself from only a week ago, hair lightly frizzed having come out of the sonics and only having time to redress. Uhura chuckled at the light upturning of hair at the back of the Vulcan's head, his cowlick still evident after all the years passed.

The week-past Spock opened the door, revealing the face of a grinning yet nervous just-turned eighteen year old. Chekov held a device in one hand and a stylus in the other. "Greetings, Commander Spock!" he said jovially.

Spock gave a slight inclination of his head. Behind him, in the shadows, future-week Spock flinched. He was typically rather aloof or disinterested in other's concerns, but that day he had been especially cold towards the energetic youngster. How could his past self not see how bright Pavel was smiling or how excited he seemed to be?

Receiving no oral answer, Chekov cleared his throat. "Commander, a group of us are going around da ship taking donations for charity. We've picked one that helps children who lost parents in Starfleet. I vas vondering if you would like to donate?"

"_We_ Lieutenant?" Spock questioned blandly, spine stiffening.

Chekov seemed oblivious to any of his Vulcan Commander's discomfort, babbling on like an excited child after a day at playschool. "It vas Keptain Kirk's idea about vhich charity, and the rest of us - some down in Engineering, Science, Communications, a whole lot of us - all thought it vas a good idea and joined in."

"I see." Spock stated, stepping back into his room and was about to press the closing button when Chekov stepped forward, keeping the safety of the doors on and not allowing them to close around a body.

"Vhat kin I put you down for, Commander?" Chekov asked brightly, stylus poised above his digital paper pad.

"Nothing." Spock scowled, mentally wrapping his hands protectively around his financial security blanket.

Chekov blinked, the confusion of a lost puppy titling his head innocently. "You vant to remain anonymous?"

"I want to be left alone." Spock snapped, bristling enough for Chekov to withdraw like a turtle confronted with an angry porcupine, and allow Spock to close and lock the door.

The door closed, Spock stormed back into the bathroom to complete his cleaning rituals, leaving the shadows, and those in them, alone.

"What was the meaning of this?"

Uhura hummed at the inquire, turning away from the closed fresher door and towards the shadow-Vulcan. "Pardon?"

"You understand my meaning." Spock all but growled his words. "You take me to my childhood and early adulthood. The first time I experienced the holiday and the first time I openly rejected it, as it had been withheld from me and I now see no meaning in such a frivolous waste of time. But, what does this," he motioned towards the closed door that he had previously seen himself stare Chekov down in, "have to do with any of that?"

"Besides the fact that by shutting yourself off from everything good - Christmas including - you've turned yourself into a coldhearted, stingy, greedy bastard?" Uhura returned hotly, her words as redhot as the clothes she wore.

Spock straightened, head raised. "I can assure you, my parents were-"

"_You understand my meaning_." Uhura mimicked sausily. "You'll be the first to offer a hand when there's physical work involved, caring little for payment or recognition of any kind when it's about helping someone else, but Lord save the one who asks you for a little cash-money!"

"I have worked hard to reach where I currently am." Spock spat. "I have never once asked for charity or handouts or depended on the help of others."

The spirit woman shrugged lightly. "Perhaps not, but that doesn't mean people haven't helped you."

"That also does not imply that I needed their help." the Vulcan replied with all the spite of the female.

Uhura sighed, folding an arm over her chest and cradling her forehead. "My time here is growing short, Spock, and I don't think I'm any closer to getting through to you than Chekov was at trying to get a donation." She looked so tired all of a sudden, the red crepe wrapped around her arm and leg hanging loosely on her body.

"Uhura, I-"

The woman held up a hand to the Vulcan's advancements, freezing him in his steps to assist her. "Expect your second visitor in an hour, sugar. I truly hope he has better luck with you than I did."

Spock reached forward as the beautiful, older woman began to fade away like early dawn. "Nyota, please, I-"

Too late, he blinked. He found himself still in his room, but instead lying in bed in the dark with his arms outstretched like a little child after a nightmare reaching for the comfort of his mommy instead of standing in a brightly lit room. The blankets around his legs, while warm, were hopelessly tangled and wrapped around much like the crepe had hugged Uhura's limbs.

As Spock straightened out the blankets, his time sence told him that no longer than five minutes had passed. It had seemed like such a long time, revisiting those three scenarios. Spock had thought that, if not the entire night had been spent tapestrying through his timeline, than at least the entire hour should have been used up.

He felt so tired, mind overwhelmed with unwanted emotions and memories he had not recalled in years. Laying down and turning over on his side, Spock closed his eyes. Perhaps his second spirit to visit him was the spirit of Sleep, as he immediately fell into a heavy slumber.

* * *

><p>Vulcan was falling apart, seismic activity shaking his body to the core. The ground was trembling with all the violence of a Grand Mal seizure, shaking his body and chattering his teeth together.<p>

"Get your ass outta that bed, ya pointed-eared 'goblin!" the darkness all around grumbled loudly. "I didn't come all this way to watch ya reenact Sleeping Beauty! An', lemme tell ya, it sure ain't pretty from where I'm standing."

Blinking lazily, Spock pulled himself from the deep jaws of REM sleep and to the darkness around him with a very southern accent. He suddenly realized that the hand on his leg shaking him was not the destruction of his homeworld, but an actual human being standing somewhere in the darkness. "Lights 70 percent." Spock announced, rocketing into a sitting position as the computer complied.

"Well, now," the southern voice drawled out satisfactorily as Spock started, "that's much better. I was wondering when you were gonna get up. Thought maybe I'd have to hypo your ass."

The man was older than the woman who had last visited him, somewhere in his mid-forties. He wore a solid blue shirt and black pants, the former a color code for sciences but the short, scrub-like sleeves proved him to be medical. His eyes were grey and his brown hair was greying, but youth seemed to pour from his very pores in great quantities of energy.

"Come one, come on, get up!" the guy grabbed Spock's shoulder and yanked him harshly from the bed. He eyed Spock's choice of nightclothes, shrugging after a moment of skepticism. "Well, at least ya aren't naked."

"I beg your pardon?" Spock sniffed, pulling his shirt down lower. "I assume you are the second visitor."

The man nodded. "Yep. In my world, I woulda been called McCoy, Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy. Ya can just call me Mr. Ghost of Christmas Present, it's shorter."

Spock blinked warily. "I do not believe it is."

"Whatever." Spirit McCoy scoffed, grabbing Spock's wrist, carefully avoiding the hand, and yanking him towards the door. "We've got some stuff to cover to change you into a loveable cuddle bear and not the stingy asshole you are now."

Spock harshly snapped his wrist from the surprisingly strong hands of the ex-doctor. "I resent that."

"And I resent you." McCoy rolled his eyes. "Now that we're all good, _let's go_."

"At least allow me time to get dressed." Spock argued, yanking his hand away before McCoy could grab it.

The doctor stopped trying to grab the Vulcan's wrist, slouching dramatically. "Really? Ya haven't figured it out yet? When you're with a spirit, you're invisible to the whole world. You could drop a whole stack of dishes and somebody would blame it on gravity or a loose bolt or something. Didn't Uhura explain any of this to ya?"

"She had." Spock admitted. "But, I had naturally assumed that her covert powers where hers alone."

"Nope." McCoy stated, succeeding in grabbing Spock's wrist and yanking him out the front door. "Dicking around with mortals and never being caught all comes with the halo. We never do get our wings though... No matter, I hate flying anyways."

Spock could not help but notice that this particular spirit of a counterpart acquaintance seemed rather eccentric. Believing this McCoy to act similarly to his own if that fact was pointed out, he wisely kept his mouth shut. "Is the ability to transport between places a power known to Nyota alone, or do you simply choose to ignore it?"

"I wanna walk through the damned ship." McCoy huffed. "I've always hated transported, so the ability to teleport is about just as nasty as a case of Klingon diarrhea."

That comparison clamped Spock's mouth up quite quickly, replacing any comment with a grimace. He quietly followed the medicine man towards the familiar congregation hall, blasts of Christmas-themed music well audible even before the doors were opened. Strong scents filled the air, coffee and hot chocolate, alcohol, cookies of all sorts, cakes and candies, trays of meats and vegetables and fruits (the latter set out with both a bowl of whipped cream and a bowl of chocolate fondue) were all laid out on a long table. An area had been cleared for mingling and dancing, tables set out for eating, even though a few crevices and observation windows also acted as makeshift chairs. Ornaments of all sorts were scattered around, hanging from the ceiling or acting as a centerpiece for a table. Paper snowflakes were strung together, and a large tree decorated with the leftover decorations stood in a corner of the long room.

"See what you've been missing?" McCoy nudged him in the ribcage, helping himself to an Irish coffee, made with Scotty's hootch instead of the usual Bailie's. "Makes you regret your whole life right now, wantin' to turn over a new leaf this instant, doesn't it?"

"On the contrary," Spock shied away like a frightened colt at the throng of people mingling and chatting in one discordant mass, "it only increases my desire to leave."

McCoy chuckled, sipping his not-so-Irish coffee. "You introvert types, too bad I understand ya more than ya think. Why do you think I drink so much during these things?" McCoy asked, motioning towards a slightly younger man sitting in the corner of the room. It was McCoy, the McCoy of Spock's universe, looking very uncomfortable and drinking his own cup of psuedo-Irish coffee.

"Then why do you, either of you, attend these gatherings?" Spock asked, giving in and accepting the cup handed to him. Sadly, it was not the warm cocoa product he had hoped for and instead a fruit punch.

As if reading his mind, McCoy rolled his eyes. "I suggest staying away from the chocolate for tonight, in your condition. And," he continued on and ignored Spock's eyebrow, "I go because I know Jim, the giant ass extrovert that he is, enjoys these kinds of social gatherings. He feeds off them like some kinda people energy leech, sucking the emotions and energy out of people like us dry like ticks do a dog's rear end."

Yet another pleasant simile. Spock swallowed a sip of his drink, eyes covering the crowded room. "Where is James?"

McCoy motioned towards a chair parallel to the other McCoy's own. "Right there. Wanna take a closer look?"

"It is rude to eavesdrop." Spock stated, the dizzy feeling washing over him as he suddenly found himself less than three steps away from Jim's and the doctor's table. He sighed heavily, and turned up his ears.

Jim drank from a clear, plastic teacup filled with red liquid, the unspiked fruit punch. His shoulders were relaxed, evidence that he had drunk something alcoholic at some point, but was refraining now. What he wasn't refraining from was sweets, a plate of all sorts of cookies and fudge and candies on a plate in the middle of the small table.

"Am I doing something wrong?" the blonde human asked pitifully, picking at the crumbling edge of a shortbread cookie.

"Damn straight." McCoy groused, slapping the Captain's hand away and sliding the plate outside of easy reach. "I told ya to lay off the sweets. I swear to God, I'm gonna put you on one of the strictest diets you've-"

Popping the small amount he had managed to snag from the shortbread into his mouth, Jim shook his head. "No, I meant about Spock." he said around the small mouthful. "I mean, I know it's only been a few days since Selik..., you know, but he won't even consider a game of chess with me."

McCoy shrugged, taking another sip of his moonshine laced caffeine. "It's the holidays. Most people get a little glum around 'em, and someone close to him dying just a day or so before just kinda adds more to that hate."

Jim hummed quietly, wondering just what was in Scotty's white lightning to make the good doctor play around with his psychology degree and philosophize. "Yeah, but-"

"But nothing." McCoy started firmly, hand a closed fist on the table. "I couldn't name you any time of year when a body's more lonesome than he is on Christmas. Sure, you've got them perfect little families where they all hang out on Christmas day, eatin' dinner and sittin' 'round the tree all cozy like, but that ain't so for the majority of people. I know from our little counseling sessions that your holiday seasons sucked ass."

"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel better?" Jim asked with a frown, eyeing a peanut-butter thumbprint cookie. While he wasn't strictly _allergic_ to peanuts, the shelled goobers were amongst some of his lighter _sensitivities_. But, for that large chocolate kiss in the center, it'd be worth the hives. Sadly, his hand was swatted away.

"You're narcissistic enough without me pettin' your ego." Bones snorted, claiming the desired cookie for himself, firstly peeling out the chocolate center and eating that first. "And, it's not just you, kid. Maybe when my Jo was little I looked forward to the holidays, watchin' her little face light up early Christmas morning to a lit tree and all her presents underneath. But, when she got older and my ex and I started fightin' more, even smaller holidays got tough. Now," McCoy lifted up his glass, "this here's what Christmas is to me."

Jim muttered something inaudibly, playing the the plastic handle of his own near empty drink. "I suppose..."

"And, Spock might _claim _he doesn't celebrate any kinda holiday, but I've heard of some Vulcan 'days of observations' and Logic Fests and all sorts of voo-doo parties." McCoy continued on, peeling apart the soft peanut butter cookie and slowly eating it, compared to Jim's typical swallow first, chew later mentality. "With his planet gone, that takes away the normal settings for the fetes, his mother's dead so he doesn't even got a pair of warm socks on his birthday, and, Lord only knows that the Vulcans that are leftover aren't gonna put celebrations on the top of their to-do lists. What's a Christmas party full of strangers gonna do for him that sulking in his room isn't?"

"But I'm not a stranger." Jim objected. "And neither are you."

"What's his favorite color?" McCoy asked, pausing to let the silence roll from Jim's tongue. "I sure as hell couldn't tell ya if he did or didn't have one, or what it would be. I bet ya don't know his birthday." More silence. McCoy snorted, "Well, I ain't gonna tell ya, but I found out the hard way by diggin' through his files. We might be on his tiny list of 'friends' or 'aquantances', but we sure as hell don't know much of anything about him."

"Can't you make him talk?" Kirk pressed. "A counseling session or anything like that?"

McCoy nearly choked on his final draught of not-Irish coffee. "I can't make the damned 'goblin get to his check-ups on time, let alone sit him down for a little _mano-a-mano_. Or, you know, _mano-a-Vulcan_."

An unusual sense of pride welled in Spock's side at the statement, even if he could feel the man's irritation. The irritation only fed the pride like sugar did active yeast.

"I could order him."

The pride was slammed into a cold, brick wall.

The empty cup clattered softly on the table as it was set down. "Really? And have to put on record that you considered your First Officer emotionally unstable - for the second time, mind you - and have me mark that I had to take a hand in forcing him to talk about something he'll probably talk about on his own sooner or later?"

"... No."

"Thought not." McCoy stated, looking at the plate of cookies by his elbow before sighing and pushing it towards his dejected, doe-eyed captain. "Just _one_."

Despite the doctor's orders, Spock watched as Jim snagged two and a piece of peanut butter fudge without the seated doctor complaining. Behind him, the older doctor McCoy tugged on his sleeve.

"Welp, I think we've seen enough here." he stated, pulling Spock along as they left the congregation hall. "I'll just drop you off back at your room, and-"

"That is all?" Spock stopped dead in his tracks. "There is nothing more you wish to show me?"

The spirit McCoy paused to, turning around with his arms crossed over his shoulder. "What do I look like, a babysitter? I was a doctor, not a chauffer. I was just trying to get through that thick Vulcan cranium of yours that you're not the only one who gets lonely this time of year. Jim might not have said just know what made his Christmases so crappy, but what I gather from this universe, his dad died the day he was born, his mom was gone all the time, holidays included; his step-father was a major ass, holidays included; his older brother ran away, he was sent to rot on some colony planet that sprouted blight and some crazy, eugenics dictator took over, and most everything else has been pretty rough, too. What more do you need me to show ya?"

Spock quickly shook his head. "Nothing. I merely thought-"

"You thought that since Uhura took ya all over the place, I'd do the same." McCoy groused, opening the door to Spock's quarters and pushing the Vulcan in front of him. "Well, that ain't happening, mister. Now, climb under those covers and expect the next guy real soon."

Moving quickly to oblige, Spock slid under the blankets as ordered by the drill sergeant doctor. "Doctor, who-" His words were cut short as something pressed into his neck with a hiss and a sharp needle-prick, and warmth spread through his body. He sank into the pillows and bedding, slipping into unconsciousness as Doctor McCoy faded away, something silver and long in his hands becoming transparent with him.

* * *

><p>"Spock."<p>

It felt like coming out from anesthesia . A drugged haze with just a hint of some kind of angelic powder to give it an extra kick. Someone was calling to him from the comfortable sleep he had been basking in. A sleep so deep it surpassed all stages of REM, dreamless and quiet.

"Spock, it is time to wake up."

The voice was familiar, soft with just a hint of gravel behind it. But, it sounded different. Lighter, more energetic and youthful. Spock hummed like a little child intent on staying in his warm cocoon and embrace the sleepiness lapping at the edges of his mind. A heavy sigh sounded from the sigh of the bed, but he couldn't find it within himself to care.

A low, chesty chuckle sounded next, a different voice. "Don't be like that. You were just like that any time I tried to wake you up when you were sick or exhausted."

"If I were ill," the first voice spoke, "then why would you wake me?"

"Well, I didn't- I mean, I wouldn't have but- Oh, shut up, Spock." the second voice grumbled. "Or, I guess in this universe," he added with humor lacing his tone, "Selik."

His eyes popped open like a spring compressed box lid, sitting up as if his upper back had thrusters that had been switched on. Two beings were beside him, one standing sentry and the other sitting on the end of the bed. He wore a traditional science blue uniform, long sleeves moderately loose about his lanky arms and a pair of black pants just barely visible hanging over the edge of the bed. His hair was a perfect shade of raven obsidian, and his eyes the unmistakable chocolate brown.

"Selik." Spock said breathlessly, allowing the departed friend to place a hand on his arm, as close to a hug as either half-Vulcan would get. "Selik you-you are the third visitor?"

"Third and fourth." Selik corrected lightly, looking over his shoulder to the man behind.

Finally noticing the second man in more detail, Spock allowed his eyes to follow his counterpart's. The man was light blonde with a pair of hazel green eyes, as laughing and smiling as a particular captain with diamond blue ones did so often. A shirt of command yellow was wrapped tightly around his muscular waist, and he also were the mandatory black pants of most male uniforms.

"This is my captain." Selik explained carefully. "He died long before I did, but was every bit as good as your captain is. In some ways," he added in the subtle slyness of your typical Vulcan, "even better."

Spock lifted an eyebrow incredulously, eyeing the man with scrutiny. "If he is the Kirk of your universe, why are his eyes a different color? And, why do you appear so young?"

The Kirk of Selik's world chuckled, a very pleasant sound to hear. "Some things you're just going to have to find out for yourself." he answered the first question cryptically.

"Yes." Selik agreed. "Spock, as you become older, you will value certain ages more than others. A sentimental value. You will refer to this age more and more in your mind, the way you will always see yourself no matter how old or wrinkled you may become. It is an image that lasts even into death."

"I see." Spock replied quietly. He paused in reflection once more. "I assume it is safe to say that you and your captain are the ghosts of the future?"

"Ghosts of Christmases Future." Kirk fixed. "And... not exactly. At least, not entirely."

Spock turned towards his deceased counterpart's spirit form. "What do you mean?"

Selik rose, rising to his full height, and taking Spock by the wrist and pulling him from the bed with him. His eyes smiled, even if his lips remained still, and Spock found it momentarily hard to breathe. Suddenly, he was not in his room in his socks and black underclothes, but instead standing on a foreign bridge in his socks and underclothes. Instead of the pristine whiteness of the _Enterprise's_ bridge, this one was a clean silver and grey and appeared much smaller. The technology looked different, but functioned much the same. A large viewing screen slowly played the rolling spances of space, and a rather irritating _bong...bong...bong..._ sounded constantly from some undetermined source. Lights blinked everywhere, and blinking buttons of all sorts of colors. Besides the three standing on a platform just above the helm and Captain's chair, the room was empty.

"What ship is this?" Spock asked quietly, aware that he was nothing but a shadow in an empty room but unable to help himself.

A look of wistfulness had crossed over both of his companions' faces, nostalgia shining in their eyes. "The _Enterprise_." Kirk finally said, breathing in as if smelling all of the ships components at once and memorizing them. "Our _Enterprise_."

"You have taken me to your universe." It was not a question, but a quiet realization and soft awe of the honor bestowed on him.

Selik nodded in solemn agreement. "We have. But, as we are already breaking several rules in doing so, we cannot show you much more that what you see here."

"But," Kirk added defiantly, the Jim both Spocks knew well, the mischievous genius that loved to break and test the rules to their farthest limits shining through, "that doesn't mean we can't tell you what may or may not happen to you with what's happened to us."

Selik again agreed, face steeling into seriousness. "Spock, in my universe, our Doctor McCoy developed an incurable disease in our time. There was no known cure, and even the base of the disease was unknown and foreign to doctors and scientists."

"Perhaps there is a cure in my universe." Spock stated, mind drifting towards the doctor currently sipping fake Irish coffee in a crowded hall. Or, maybe that had been in the past if this was the future... The future of another universe to him and the past to the deceased ones showing it to him.

Time-space paradoxes were most confusing.

"No." Selik said firmly, drawing Spock's oddly wandering attention back. "There is no cure for xenoplycinthema in your world, just as there was none in our own."

"But, what both universes have in common, Spock," Kirk laid a strong hand on the younger Vulcan's, still clad in his sleepwear, shoulder, "is you. When we discovered that our doctor was dying, I allowed him one last mission before he was honorably discharged. During that mission, data banks were found containing an alien medicine that looked adaptable to curing his disease. It took months of hard work and diligence, but you - _he_," Jim motioned with his free hand towards the other Spock, "- was able to change the cure into something a human could use, and you completely annihilated the disease."

The hand on his shoulder was the warmest of all the touched by far, comforting to the very deepest reaches of his _katra_. Spock looked thoughtful for a moment, looking up into the hazel eyes. "Why are you telling me this? Is my own Doctor McCoy going to die of xenopolycinthema?"

Selik's face was drawn, his eyes sad yet closed off as he answered. "We cannot tell you, Spock. Showing you what is past and what is present is simple, it does not force one to make decisions. Telling one about their future, though, is difficult. I cannot tell you for certain that your own McCoy will suffer or die as our doctor came close to, but I can tell you that, if he does, you will be his only hope." Selik paused, allowing his words to sink in before adding the clincher. "And, Spock, private research is also privately funded."

The younger Spock bristled, the warm hand falling from his shoulder as his spine straightened and eyes hardened. "I have never denied my friends assistance in any way."

"You refused to donate to Chekov's charity." Kirk pointed out, albeit kindly.

"That assistance did not directly pertain to him." Spock countered sharply. "What does it matter if I donate to one odd charity or another? There are plenty others who had offered their own assistance in that area."

"True." Selik hummed. "But, you had the opportunity and the ability to help, and you did not. It is not about the logic or the necessity of doing so, but the ethnicity. It would have been the right thing to do." Selik stepped closer to his still younger than he was counterpart, letting his own hand touch the other Vulcan's shoulder. "If you would recall, Chekov had stated that your captain had picked out the charity himself. The charity offers support and assistance to children who lost one or both parents serving in the Fleet. Do you think that was merely random selection on the end of your captain?"

Spock did not answer, none needed. It was obvious it had not been been chance that his captain would choose such a specific charity, especially one quiet close to his own childhood experiences. A very logical shame began to boil up from his gut, and must have shown on his face as Kirk spoke.

"You're not a bad person, or Vulcan, Spock." Kirk said gently, his voice quiet amongst the steady _bong-bong-bong_ of the room. "To err is the way of every sentient being. We're all going to make mistakes, but they're only wrong if the person making them doesn't try to fix them once he sees what he's been doing wrong. You understand that?"

Nodding slowly, Spock began to sag into the grip of his dead counterpart. Perhaps understanding sapped the strength from one's limbs, making their head pound and their heart hurt.

"Jim," Selik spoke, supporting Spock easily, "I believe it would be best to return him now. Travelling through time and continuums has taxed him greatly."

As Jim nodded, Spock protested. "I want to remain, please. Just for a while longer. I do not want you to leave just yet."

"All things must pass away, Spock." Selik gently brushed the cowlick curling up at the back of his younger self's head. "We will meet again, when it is your time."

"I desire to go with you now." Spock argued weakly, closing his tired eyes as vertigo signaled his going home. "My mother is there, is she not?"

"And she will be there, waiting, until it is the proper time for you to reunite." Selik promised, waiting for Jim to pull back the covers before helping his weakened self to lie down.

Spock clutched the blue shirt tightly, even as he was guided back against the pillows and the coverlet pulled up. "Please, can you stay just a little while longer?"

Kirk gave the blankets a final pat, retracting Spock's hands from the hem of his First Officer's shirt. "Our time here is over, Spock. We've got to go back, now."

His warm touch, like a gentle sun, began to fade away. The warmth remained, but the strength of the hand became more and more transparent as the two spirits began to withdraw.

"Wait!" Spock called, wrestling against the blankets that seemed to hold him down like heavy straps. "Please," he got an arm free, reaching towards the figures walking away and enveloped in a beam of light as the completely vanished, "don't go!"

(/line)

He started forward, gasping for air as he called after them. The light was harsh, hurting his eyes and head. A swirling nausea rose up in the pit of his stomach, the taste of bile in the back of his throat. A call was still on his lips, the vision of two people fading away still in the corner of his eyes. A hand was on his body, pushing him back down.

"Holy shit!" Jim exclaimed, his hand still resting on Spock's chest as Spock's vision cleared. "Bones!"

He was in sickbay, a private room. The steady beeping of several monitors were connected to the biobed, the main screen above unreadable from his current angle. The computer typically in reach for the patient to entertain themselves with had been moved to the foot of the bed, and the faint dronings of a bald headed man in a maroon robe as a person with undetermined gender, dressed in white with a face as pale as his clothes, drew him from the bed.

A sharp voice, barking like an energetic yet cranky dog, cut out whatever the televised people were saying. "What the hell, Jim? What- Spock, you're awake."

"He just," Jim removed his hand from Spock's person to snap his fingers, "shot up, just like that."

The whine of a tricorder turned Spock's attention towards the doctor, waving his medical thimble over the Vulcan instead of consulting the multiple machines getting the same readings. "How ya feeling, Spock? Ya gave us all one hell of a scare."

It took a moment to study his body, going as deep into knowing his person as he could. His head still hurt somewhat, and a general feeling of malaise made his muscles hurt and took away any appetite he might have ever had. And, there was a longing in his side and in the mental contact of his mind reaching for others that were no longer there, in a netherworld closed off to all mortals until the proper time. Of course, Spock made no comment on any of these. "Fine." he stated sullenly, and rather hoarsely, to his dismay. He cleared his throat. "What happened?"

"There was a glitch in the computers." McCoy answered with all the bias and contempt he normally held for the transporters. "It fooled around with the codes in the replicators and set alarms off in most of the crew's cabins."

Spock did remember his alarm going off, but had thought that perhaps it had all been some kind of odd dream. Or vision. His alarm had gone off just before his holo-emmiter cube had glitched. But, he hadn't noticed anything wrong with the replicators. "Have there been others ill?"

"Nope, but, it would just so happen that the changes made to the replicator codes would affect a Vulcan's metabolism. There's been some complaints of food tasting 'off', but nothing more than that." the doctor continued on. "When Jim went to his quarters after the Christmas party, he found his alarm on and ordered it off. He heard yours across the room though, and went in to check on ya. Lucky thing he did, too." McCoy finished with a snort.

"I found you passed out on the floor." Jim picked up where McCoy had stopped. "I think you were trying to find out what was going on with the systems, but whatever happened to the replicators hit you first."

Odd, Spock could not remember ever being on a floor. After each of his visitations, he was returned to bed and tucked in. A question came to his mind, "Which way was a facing?"

"Uhh..." Jim tried to raise an eyebrow, a motion he had never succeeded in and instead only waggled a blonde caterpillar. "On your face?"

"No." Spock came as close to sighing as he ever had while awake. "That was not what I meant. If I had not collapsed and continued on, where do you think-"

Jim hummed in understanding, cutting Spock off as he rapidly nodded. "Oh, your desk. I think you would have ended up there, if you kept straight. Why? Is that important?"

Spock tiredly shook his head, not finding it within himself to answer. Softly, almost near mute, the computer and the movie it was playing showed a man in tophat and a long tailcoat lifting a boy in dirty brown cap and a single crutch onto his lap surrounded by others of clothing similar to the poor boy's, all old-style English clothing circa 1800's or earlier. "_God bless us, everyone._"

A sharp groan turned two heads towards the corner of the room, where McCoy was fiddling with a hypospray and looking at a monitor reading simultaneusly. "I swear to God, Jim, if I have to hear _A Christmas Carol_ one more time-"

"Has this film been played often?" Spock asked before the doctor could began ranting, rolling credits filling the screen.

McCoy growled. "For the past day that's _all _that Jim's played. All three or four variations, but basically all the same movie again and again and again. Well," he paused for only a moment, "he did put on some kind of weird science fiction show about this guy and a blue police box, but those were all Christmas-y too."

"But it _was_ Christmas." Jim argued. "What do you expect me to watch on Christmas Day, shoot-em-up movies?"

"That'd be preferable." the doctor replied snidely. "And Christmas was _yesterday_, I don't see why you have to keep watching the same stupid movie." Jim was about to protest again when McCoy turned off the computer screen and yanked Jim to his feet. "It's time for you to get the hell outta here. You've got to see Spock wake up, but now it's time for him to get some real sleep. You can come back later and annoy him with outdated movies."

"But-"

"_Now."_

Had Jim been just five years younger, Spock would have been 100% certain that he would have stomped his foot and huffed. Instead, the twenty-six year old vouched for just the huff. "Fine." he scoffed. "I guess I'll be seeing ya later, Spock."

Spock had started to nod when an idea struck him, and he quickly sat up further before the blonde could disappear out the door. "Cap- Jim, if it would not be too much trouble," he paused long enough to make sure Jim was listening and it would indeed not be too much to ask, "when you returned, would you bring me the holo-emitter I left in my desk drawer? And a PADD." Jim looked hesitant at the second item, forcing Spock to further explain before Jim said no. "I can assure you, it has nothing to do with work. It is for private... research."

"I guess so." Jim shrugged. "Just the emitter and the PADD? Fine, I'll bring it when I swing by again. See ya later, Spock."

The door slid closed, and not a moment too soon. It was difficult to hold back the flinch as the sharp prick of a hypospray hissed into his neck, the ever-steady hand of Doctor McCoy pulling away the silver device and setting it aside. "There." the doctor stated with satisfaction. "That should get that last bit of bad code outta your hardware."

Spock nearly sighed again, but refrained. He watched McCoy working amongst the devices, imagining the being of his counterpart's doctor and what Spock Prime had done to assist him in a time of need. "Doctor," Spock started, McCoy's ears perking up and full-doctor-mode switching on, "I was wondering if, perhaps, I might have your assistance in an experiment I wish to take on."

"Depends on what it is." McCoy stated. "I'm a doctor, not a scientist... Well, not a strict, _real_ scientist. I'm better with drugs and disease than testing plant reactions and soil samples."

"The experiment I desire to begin relies heavily in the medical field." Spock assured him. "An area I am not well familiar with."

The doctor shrugged. "I'm sure ya wouldn't be too terrible on your own. But, what kinda experiment are we talking about here?"

"A cure."

McCoy chuckled. "Wanna find a cure for the common cold? That still hasn't been found yet."

"Actually, the disease I wish to study is," he swallowed quietly, whetting his lips, "xenoplocinthema."

Pausing, McCoy turned towards the Vulcan in bed, outfitted in sickbay pajamas and an I.V. line stretching from the crock of his arm. "That's... that's a pretty specific disease, Spock. What's with the sudden interest in that particular strain?"

"Must there be a reason?" Spock asked defensively. "As of now, there is no known cure or even basic treatment for xenopolycinthema. There are at least aids for the common cold, a non-fatal virus."

"I'm not arguing with ya, just curious." McCoy said rather calmly for his usual hot-headed, Southern self. "I'd be glad to help ya out a little, when you decide to start the project. Is this something Starfleet's asked you to take on?"

Spock shook his head in the negative. "No. Merely my own interest and concern."

The doctor huffed. "That ain't gonna be cheep without funding."

"I do not care about price." Spock said, and found he actually believed that. He didn't care what price was put on his acquaintance's - _friend's_ - health. He would drain his account down to the last quarter-cred if he had to.

One week later, Jim would burst into the lab both McCoy and Spock were working in, hands wrapped around a PADD and eyes huge.

"Bones!" Jim exclaimed, "You'll never guess!"

"That creep that's been stalking ya on the inter-web finally left ya alone?" the doctor tried, relishing the way Jim glared at him.

"No, but I just blocked him." Jim stated with a huff. "That charity the ship was funding last week, the one for the kids? Well, somebody made a last minute donation, and I didn't realize until now, and it's _huge_. Two whole _big _ones."

The doctor shrugged. "So, someone dropped two grand on your little fundraiser. That's good, but what's that gotta-"

"Not two thousand." Jim shook his head. "Higher."

"Twenty-thousand?" McCoy guessed, eyes shifting towards the Vulcan delicately pouring a silver liquid into a beaker with a shrug.

"Higher."

"Two hundred?"

Jim shook his head, flipping the PADD around. "Some anonymous doner dropped _two million_ credits into the charity. I tried to trace and see where it came from, but the guy covered his tracks too well."

The doctor stood there a moment, vial in one hand and petri dish in the other, staring at the upheld PADD. "_Shit_."

Jim laughed. "That was my reaction. I'm gonna go broadcast a thanks to the ship, if this guy won't come forward, I want him - or her - to at least know we're all grateful. Holy crap, this is gonna help a lot of kids."

He didn't allow either man time to reply, hurrying from the room as excited as a child with a brand new toy he wanted to show all his friends. McCoy hummed to himself, watching as Spock continued on with his delicate tools the same way he had before Jim had come in, and during Jim's excitement, unchanged.

"Pretty interesting, that big donation." McCoy started absently, continuing his own half of the research and marking down his findings. He scrolled through the screen, comparing it to past studies and control bases. "Jim's pretty excited about it."

"Obviously." Spock's answer was just as absent as McCoy's smalltalk, more muttered and mind more on his work than words.

A comfortable silence fell between the two co-workers, the only sounds in Bio-Lab 4 the tinkling of glass vials as they were set down and the gentle ringing of metal as thin rods were used for stirring. McCoy allowed a good five minutes to pass before he spoke up again, going in, like a tiger to his prey, for the kill.

"I'm sure you know nothing about that giant donation." he said smugly, keeping his eyes on his work even as he felt the Vulcan straighten at his side.

Spock's breath came out a single, haughty huff. "I am certain I do not know what you are speaking of."

"Sure ya don't." McCoy said one last time before rolling his eyes and letting the subject drop. If Spock wanted to remain anonymous, and if Jim wanted to remain and oblivious fool, who was he to tell them otherwise?

Spock wasn't a warmer person after his visitations - a phenomenon he was keeping securely to himself - but he certainly wasn't any colder. When he could, he joined Jim in a game of chess or the _very_ occasional film, depending on the genre and description of the chosen movie. And, while he had yet to sit with both Jim and Bones or just McCoy and talk over an intoxicating beverage (or chocolate snack), he found a certain level of closeness with the good doctor the more they worked on their cure together. McCoy still saw the experiment as something Spock had merely come by at random, but Spock knew better. Within months, and over a 250,00 credits later, something that appeared to attack the xenopolycenthema safely was discovered. 100 grand more, human trials were seen to, and worked. There would be no suffering now for many people, especially when, and if, the doctor ever developed the disease himself.

And, while his financial security wasn't quite as strong as it had once been, it was far from weak. Instead of obsessing over figures that would make an accountant-broker reach for a bottle of asprin, the long forgotten lyre had been found in the back of Spock's closet during a recent 'new year's cleaning', an annual activity his mother had partaken in. He had not played it since he was a young boy in school, the stringed instrument sorely out of tune and in need of a good cleaning itself. Perhaps sometime, when the rust had been shaken from both the instrument and his fingers, he would take it out into the rec rooms and practice in the quiet of his friends. His few, chosen, select audience of close friends was better than any standing ovation could ever be.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Notes:<span>**

**Ack-lay : A violent animal from the Star Wars genre. Appearance is similar to a giant praying mantis, and was in the Second movie. (The Clone Wars, I believe.)**

**A few Doctor Who references, and one Shakespear reference that is so super tiny I doubt anyone will get it. Well, Shakespear or Hermin Melville's _Moby Dick_. I don't own the rights to any of the things mentioned here, or Star Trek, or Charles Dicken's _A Christmas Carol_, nor any of the movies accompanied with it. The quote and the movie that inspired this was the Chrismas Carol with Patrick Stewart (Captain Picard). He was supposed to make a guest appearance in this story, but didn't make the cut. He was, however, the baldy in the movie Jim was watching when Spock woke up.**

**But, if you want to see a funny video filmed by his wife in a singing Santa Claus hat (that annoys the hell out of him) I suggest you go youtube it. (Youtube seems to have become a verb. Like 'Google'.)**

**The starship _Voyager_ is from Star Trek: Voyager, which I know is technically about 1-2 centurys into the future, but - heh - author's liberties? I hate making up OCs, even ships, if I can help it. I find it weird, though, that the Voyage crew finds the past Star Trek crew and century (23rd) so technilogically behind. All they've got really different, aside from faster warps, cooler plastic guns, better shields, and better food replicators is a holographic, sarcastic, sentient doctor. Does anyone else find it weird that Janeway or someone said that the original _Enterprise_ crew and century didn't have food replicators? I coulda sworn they did... (Trouble With Tribbles) Scotty - "Aye, sir, they're in the replicators."**

**Hmmmm...**

**That is all. Sorry not 'It's Over' (Not that anyone really cares) yet anothe rbunny plot playing with my mind that needed purging. And, late, at that.**

**I also took some liberties with 5-year old Spock's play clothes. I absolutly hated the Animated series clothing in Yesteryear - a banana hammock would have been more covering that whatverer G-string the kids were wearing. But, in the Nu!verse, they were full robed. I kind of wanted to cross the two together, so think of a Next Generation jumpsuit with less fabric. And less ranbows (good Lord, Wesley Crusher. A grey jumpsuit at the age of 13 with rainbow neckline and sleeves...)**

**Happy Holidays to whatever religion or non you follow and celebrate or don't. And... belated, at that.**

** All mistakes are my own, especially since Fanfic has no removed the spell-check option. Using my Gmail for spell-check is most tedious and atrocious. I checked the entire script, but not the A/N. But, any slipped through mistakes are my own and please point them out.**

**Thank you.**


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